Loreley Island Ch. 03

Chapter 3: Invitation

Hildy sat outside the guest house smoking a cigarette. It was one of his precious Gitane Blondes. He had to go through illegal channels to get them. He knew smoking was bad. It was worse than bad; it was gross and unattractive. But things were fucked up and downing another shot of tsipouro or lighting up another brain dissolving spliff wasn't going to help. People were right to discourage smoking tobacco because it burned up your organs and aged you fast, but it sure as fuck helped you get shit done. And Hildy had a task to do. He had to save his best friend.

Of course it was his fault Clay was in jeopardy. He had invited Stella. He knew immediately he'd made a mistake. The second time he saw Stella in the city at Mephisto she had casually asked what had become of Clayton Berkeley. It was the only proof Hildy required. Instantly he was certain she was hot for Clay and probably had been since the first moment she saw him in the halls of St. Andrews; just like all the other girls Hildy had gone to prep school with (and more than a few of the boys).

When he ran into her at the marina at Grace Cove he hadn't intended to mention the party. But within a minute he found himself describing in detail the techniques Álvaro, his houseman, employed to create the perfect mojito. He told Stella it was time she saw some of her old pals from St. Andrew's. The thin ring of gold encircling her inhumanly bright blue-green irises glimmered. She was thinking about Clay, Hildy knew it. He also knew what would happen when Clay saw her.

Without a doubt Stella had become the one-of-a-kind girl with the power to light the fuse to Clay's heart. Hildy wouldn't have a problem with that, except he couldn't shake the feeling she was going to make it explode. Watching the cherry of his cigarette burn down to the filter, he sensed Clay was going to be incinerated unless he and Gwen prevented it.

"Here you go, Mr. Hildy." Màrcia, the housekeeper and Álvaro's seventy-year-old mother, had brought a tray with the miracle hangover cure Hildy'd ordered for Gwen.

Hildy laughed as he took the tray and set it on a side table inside. Calling him 'Mr. Hildy' was mostly a joke between them. "You didn't have to bring it, Màrcia."

"I wanted to. I hope she feels better." Màrcia turned to walk back up the path to the main house.

Hildy stopped her. "Màrcia, what do you know about the Castle?" Màrcia's large family, the Figueiredos, were Portuguese immigrants who came to Loreley Island around 1900. Over the decades they had served nearly all the wealthy households in some capacity. Few things happened that the Figueiredos didn't know something about.

"Oh, I don't like to talk about people."

Hildy knew she was being coy. He couldn't count the hours he'd spent listening to Màrcia dish the dirt. "The Wydeville's always owned that place, right?" he asked. Hildy knew Stella's mother was Alix Wydeville Marchand, though he had never met the woman.

"Yes I think. They are an old family. But they don't come much anymore. Not for many years."

"There was an accident wasn't there? Like twenty years ago? Someone drove off Route 3 into the ocean or something?"

"It was very sad how Mr. Marchand died. Cristina, my sister, was working for the lady, Mrs. Wydeville, I mean, Marchand. Cristina said she never saw her cry for her husband. And my father was the ice man for the Wydeville lady before that, long ago, nineteen twenties. I'm not going to tell you what he said." Màrcia laughed and raised her hands.

"Come on. You have to tell me." Hildy put on his most charming smile.

"My father said the lady was not a good lady. He said this Wydeville lady is evil."

≈≈≈

Clay blinked. She was here. Just outside the door. He checked himself. At least he was wearing underwear. He smiled at Stella and raised his index finger to indicate he needed a second. He rushed into the bathroom. The first thing was to brush his teeth. If there was a chance for another kiss he wasn't going to miss out. He spat into the sink and splashed water on his face. His eyes weren't totally red anymore. The silver in the center was vibrant again.

She wants me. It was evident. She wouldn't be there wearing a strappy yellow tank top and little white short shorts otherwise. He pulled on a bathrobe and flew down the stairs to the door. "Stella!"

"Hi," she said. In the bright morning sunlight her aquamarine eyes were rimmed with gold. "I was worried. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I think I'm cool." God, she looked so good. "How did you get here?" he asked.

"I rode my bike." There was a white and black vintage steel ten-speed at the top of the driveway.

"You took Route 3?" he asked.

"Only part of the way."

"Well come in." He made a welcoming gesture.

She stepped up to the threshold and then stopped. "No, I can't. I have to get back."

He moved closer until their lips were barely two inches apart. "Before you leave you have to tell me what happened last night."

"I don't know." She looked up at him. "What do you remember?"

"I remember this..." He kissed her and she kissed him. He wrapped an arm around her back and spread his fingers up her neck into her hair. Sparks from her tongue shot through his skull and made his brain and his nerves pulse with flashing, beating energy. He felt his body lighting up.

He pressed against the small of her back and crushed her against him. He was growing out of his underwear and he could feel the metal zipper of her shorts through the thin cotton robe. The metal was cool at first but now it was getting hot. God he wanted to unbutton her shorts and strip them off her. Her fingertips stretched across his shoulder blades as he sensed her rising in his grasp. He slid one of his hands along her side and stroked her thigh while he gripped her ass with the other. Was she about to wrap her legs around him? Were they going to fuck in the doorway – half in and half out of his house?

She pulled away. Her hair was flowing wildly in the air even though there was scarcely a breeze. "I have to go." Her gaze met his at eye level. Was she on tiptoe? She wasn't as tall as he was...was she?

"Stella..." He glimpsed her tennis shoes. Her pointed toes weren't quite scraping the ground.

"I... I'm not supposed to be gone for long..." Her feet lowered onto the sand-dusted slate. She stepped backwards. "I only wanted to know that you weren't hurt." She turned to go.

"Wait. Let's go sailing today."

"I can't. Tomorrow, maybe." She walked to the top of the drive.

"Just tell me when and where," he called after her.

"The marina at three o'clock."

"Grace Cove?"

"Sure." She got on her bike. "See you then. Bye, Clay."